Thank You, Gravity
by knick-knack-15
Summary: It had always been senior Mitchie Torres' dream to go to Berkley College of Music. But her only way of getting there is going back to the one place she's always tried to forget. Camp Rock. Mitchie returns as a counselor and has to handle the past. Smitchi
1. Chapter 1

**Hey, guys, so I'm totally new to the Camp Rock fandom, but I thought I had a radical idea for a story so I thought I'd try it out. Send me so feedback, yo.**

It had been like falling off of a cliff.

No worse. It had been like _dying._

No, it had been worse. _Way _worse. It had been like... like accidentally flushing the guitar pick John Mayer had kissed and tossed to her at his concert down the toilet.

All in all, _this sucked._

"Bu... but, Mrs. Stanley, th-there has to be some kind of mistake..." Mitchie Torres' mouth opened and closed in a lame attempt at creating a coherent statement. She sat in the guidance counselor's office, nervously twisting the frayed denim of her skirt around her fingers. "There _has _to be. I... I've been working towards this since I was thirteen years old. There has to be a mistake..."

Only twenty-three seconds before, old, crusty Mrs. Stanley had taken Mitchie Torres' heart and smashed it into a million pieces with her words: "I'm sorry, Ms. Torres, but I don't make mistakes," she had said curtly. "I've reviewed your transcript-your extra curriculars in particular, and I just can't imagine Berkley accepting you on the small amount of community service hours you've clocked."

Mitchie blinked a few times in a dazed state. Mrs. Stanley's wrinkly face hazed away into the pathetic image of Mitchie donning a green apron, taking orders at Dairy Queen for the rest of her existence.

"But Berkley is my _entire life! _I've dreamed of going there since I was a little girl! You can't tell me that they won't accept me because I...I haven't given enough back to the community? There has to be a _mistake_. I've clocked sixty hours since my freshman year, isn't that enough? This is my _dream, _Mrs. Stanley."

Mrs. Stanley shook her white-haired head in that old, grumpy way of hers. "A dream is merely pictures that play behind your eyes, Ms. Torres," she cut. "Hard work is blood, sweat, tears, and the satisfaction of a job well done."

_Thanks, Confuscious, _Mitchie wanted to scoff. But instead, she found herself sliding out of the uncomfortable plastic of her chair to her knees. She was reducing herself to a lowly nothing, dragging herself down to a position of humiliation. All in honor of music. Of her future. "But Mrs. Stanley," Mitchie pleaded. She caught the surprise ignited in Mrs. Stanley's eyes as she crawled behind her guidance counselor's desk. "_Sixty hours?! _Sixty hours isn't enough? You have to help me! There _must _be something we can do..."

"_Ms. Torres!_" Mrs. Stanley recoiled at Mitchie's desperation. Mitchie Torres, her smartest, female student who usually had the most poise was on her knees, grasping at the ankle-length skirt that had been in the Stanley family for centuries. "I can understand that you are upset, but for God's sake have some _dignity!_"

The guidance counselor's office was suddenly stiff with silence. Mitchie feebly pulled herself from the ground, defeat puddling in her eyes. "Sorry," she sighed. "I just... I really..."

The Berkley College of Music was a speeding car, advancing down the highway of her dreams and clearly out of sight. How long had Mitchie imagined kick-starting her singing career there? How many times had she promised her mom and dad a house in the Bahamas after she became famous? It all suddenly became incredibly insignificant.

"Of course, Ms. Torres," Mrs. Stanley suddenly piped up, "You could still send in your applications and your essay. There's always still a chance. However, you and I both know how selective Berkley can be. They would take a girl who has clocked sixty-one hours of community service before sixty."

Mitchie winced at the reality. She dusted off her skirt, circled around the desk, and gathered her backpack. "Thank you anyway, Mrs. Stanley." Mitchie swallowed back her disappointment and quickly brushed her brown bangs away from her eyes. "Have a nice summer."

Mrs. Stanley didn't say anything in response. She merely pushed her bifocals up to the bridge of her nose, patted her head to see that her hair was in its neat place, and looked back to the pile of transcripts on her desk.

_All those transcripts with all the right grades and all the right hours, _the malicious thought pinched the back of her brain as she swept out of the office and into the empty hallway. The dismissal bell for summer had rung a mere hour before. An hour before, she had been excited. Totally psyched to have completed her senior year. Pumped for her question-mark of a future. And an hour later, she was briskly walking to the entrance of her school, trapped under a black rain cloud.

It had been like dying.

--

Inhale... she drank in the smell of her pillow- Garnier Fructis and fabric softener. When she was younger, her dad would fall into bed with her in the morning and claim that he could know all that she dreamed about by sniffing the top of her head. She would giggle as he dug his nose into her hairline and predict her dreams of NSYNC and Cinderella. _And music and Berkley..._

Exhale... she emitted huffs of negativity. How was she not dead yet? She had been facedown in her pillow for what had seemed like hours, the reality of her future slipping out of her fingertips a little bit more with each breath.

Suddenly, a soft knock came at her bedroom door. A faint squeak sounded as it opened. "Mitch?..." Mrs. Torres invited herself into the room. Her daughter lay unmoving on her bed, her face buried in a pillow. "Mitchie, are you in the mood for dinner?"

Nothing. Mrs. Torres watched Mitchie's shoulders rise and fall with the steady beat of her breath. Her glossy brown hair was splayed on her pillow. Mitchie Torres didn't look like she was in the mood for anything. "Mitchie..." Mrs. Torres cooed and perched herself on the edge of her daughter's bed. "There's no harm in still sending in your application. The worse they can do is say no, and if they do, there are always other colleges-"

With that, Mitchie's head snapped up. "Other colleges?" She whispered, her chocolate eyes crinkling at their edges in offence. "Have I ever shown interest in _other colleges?_ Mom, Berkley was supposed to be the beginning of the rest of my life!"

"It still is, Mitchie," Mrs. Torres assured her. "I mean, what are a few community service hours? And you have to admit, you are rather good at making a big deal out of little things-"

"_Mom!"_

"I'm just saying!" Mitchie's mother stifled her laugh and stroked her daughter's head. "I'm just saying... send in your application. And if you're that worried, maybe you can squeeze in a few more community service hours before the fall."

Mitchie pulled herself into sitting position. "Yeah, but how?" she asked. "I got all of my volunteer locations from the school's resource officer. He's gone for the summer."

"How about you think about that stuff later?" Mrs. Torres mouth cracked into a sympathetic smile. "It's the first day of summer! Come eat dinner. I made your favorite, and maybe we can pop in a movie afterwards."

As lame as Mitchie thought it would be to watch a movie with her mom, (and it would probably end up being The Little Mermaid knowing _her _mother) she agreed anyway, knowing she made her mother feel important. "Okay," Mitchie caved. Her mother pressed a lipsticked kiss to her forehead.

"Oh, and before I forget," Mrs. Torres pulled a folded envelope out of the pocket of her trousers. "This came in the mail for you today."

Mitchie took the white envelope in her hands and recognized the playful handwriting immediately. Excitement flushed into ther stomach as she opened the letter from Caitlyn, the only person from Camp Rock she was still in contact with. They had been pen palling religiously for the past three years, filling each other in on things like relationships, performance opportunities, and plans for the future. It was refreshing to hear from her, like a new beginning to such a terrible day:

_Dearest Mitch,_

_By the time you get this letter, I will probably still be running through my neighborhood in my pajamas in maniacal excitement. Would you like to know why?_

_BECAUSE I WAS ACCEPTED TO BERKLEY._

_Isn't this radical? We're going to go to school together! No more snail mail and iChats! No more three-hour IM conversations! We're going to college together, girl!_

_I know by now, you too, are running through your neighborhood in only your pajamas in maniacal excitement, but slow down for about three seconds. I've got a few more things I've been dying to share with you._

_One, I've enclosed some of my pictures from prom. The guy I'm with is Braden. Remember that story I told you about the duct tape and the swimming pool? THAT'S THE GUY. He turned out to be quite the prom date, surprisingly enough. I know you're wondering, what on earth happened to Michael? _

_And that, my friend, will have to be explained in another letter._

_Two, I got a blast-from-the-past in the mail today._

_It was a letter from Camp Rock. They want to know if I'll come back as a counselor..._

**Mhm.**

**I'm leaving it there.**

**REVIEW for the next chapter! I've got some crazy awesome ideas for this story and I would LOVELOVELOVE you if you told me what you thought of this chapter. So REVIEW!**

**please?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Ohmygahhh thanks for all of the reviews.**

_...Camp Rock is celebrating its tenth year anniversary and has asked 'a few outstanding alumni to return as counselors'._

_Their words, not mine, Mitch._

_Crazy, right? I can't believe it's been three incredibly long years, and now they want me back. It's like making a full circle. And you know what's even crazier? I just might do it. It would be kind of fun to see Brown and Ms. Dee again and to take cold showers and sleep on hard beds and-most importantly- ROCK OUT._

_So Mitch, you know me; I could go on for hours about our... _eventful _summer at Camp Rock. Write me back okay? Tell me about prom and Torren. Be sure to congratulate me on getting into Berkley with you (a gift would be nice!). And pleasepleaseplease tell me Camp Rock considered you to be 'outstanding alumni' as well._

_I miss you, girl._

_Quite terribly, actually._

_xoxo,_

_Caitlyn_

Mitchie blinked four times.

She swam in the outskirts of reality, not able to fully comprehend the following:

A. Caitlyn got into Berkley- _her _Berkley, her dream since she had learned to play 'My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean' on the piano when she was seven. As much as Mitchie wanted to envy Caitlyn, she simply couldn't. She could only rejoice.

B. Camp Rock was _back._ Those cloudy memories she had pushed to the back of her mind were creeping to the front of her conscience again. A part of her wanted to pull on socks and check the mail for a letter. Another part of her hoped that Camp Rock would overlook her completely.

In that moment, Mitchie Torres, wasn't sure of anything. All she knew was the paper in her sweaty hands, the smell of her mother's perfume, and the hazy picture of a dark-haired boy from her past with musical brown eyes...

"...Mitchie?..."

Suddenly, all of her senses flickered back to life like a lamp, and she found her mother perched beside her on her bed.

"Mitch, you look like you've seen a ghost," she said as she brushed her daughter's bangs away from her face. Mitchie wanted to laugh at the irony. "Baby, what's in the letter?"

Everything she _did _and _didn't _want to hear. "Caitlyn was accepted to Berkley," Mitchie mumbled. She looked away when she saw the apples of her mother's cheeks rise in excitement for Caitlyn. Her face glowed with a genuine happiness, a look Mitchie had always wished _she _could cause in her mother.

"Oh," Mrs. Torres said curtly, sensing her daughter's disappointment. "Well, tell her I said congratulations."

Mitchie sighed as her mother coaxed her to come down to the dinner table. Though the pit of her stomach roared for attention, she told her mother she wasn't hungry. "I feel tired," she said. She peeled back her sheets and shimmied between them, hoping sleep would show her mercy and nudge her into a dream.

As she pressed the side of her face into her pillow she felt her mother press a kiss to the back of her head. "Please, Mitchie," her mother pleaded quietly. "Please don't let this get you down."

Mrs. Torres' words fell to the back of Mitchie's mind as she finally_, finally _left reality.

--

It had been like his first kiss.

No, better. It had been like his first concert.

No, it had been better. _Way _better. It had been like... like that time his father took him skydiving: the way the wind screamed past his face as he hurtled through the clouds back to reality.

All in all, this was _euphoria._

As the door cracked open and Torren Yorke looked out into the morning, he knew his entire day had officially been flipped upside-down.

Was it his imagination, or was Mitchie Torres really standing on his front porch, swirling in the brilliance of the morning sun? Her chestnut hair was glossy and set in disheveled waves and she was wearing distressed jeans. Her plain red T-shirt highlighted her chocolate eyes that were heavy with concern, puddling with anxiety...

"M-Mitchie?!" Torren choked.

Mitchie's red mouth parted awkwardly. "Hi," she breathed as she jammed three of her fingers into her front pockets.

Torren Yorke and Mitchie Torres were suddenly enveloped in a heavy silence; her thoughts pulsing calmly through her brain, his conscience spinning off of its axis with questions: _What was she doing there? Why did she have to look like _that_? What was Mitchie thinking in that exact moment? Was she thinking about him? Was she thinking about anything?_

_Damn_, he wished he had showered that morning. Or at least put on some decent clothes. Here was Mitchie Torres, looking effortlessly beautiful as always, with her hair like _that _and her clothes like _that _and her mouth like _that _and her eyes like _that. _And he was freaking _Torren Yorke _in blue boxers and a tattered Dave Matthews Band T-shirt. Why was it always him that was caught in the bad place at the bad time...

"Um..." Mitchie's word struck the tense silence. "Can I... can I come in?"

His brow furrowed as if she had spun a sentence of Latin. "Wha...? Oh! Yes! Come in!" Torren eagerly stepped to the side and invited Mitchie into the house.

He remembered the day his father took him skydiving again as Mitchie passed him by; the way their bodies sliced the atmosphere, building up a pressure in his ears, plugging his thoughts into his brain. He could've sworn his heart had stopped beating the entire four minutes he plummeted to the ground before he pulled the cord to his parachute...

"So, what's up?"

"Nothing much, you?"

"I... um... nothing."

Silence.

They stood awkwardly by the front door, Mitchie looking like _that _and Torren looking like a pitiful mess. He wished he was able to form coherent words around Mitchie Torres, but he found it close to impossible. It had been approximately been three weeks since Mitchie had broken up with Torren, since everything he knew had been turned inside out.

"_Look at us_," she had said that day with a sigh. "_We're _graduating_ next month. In a matter of four weeks, we're going to be going in two completely different directions with our lives. Do you really think we're going to last?_"

Torren knew she had been exactly right. And as she had gently pressed her lips to his cheek one last time that day, he wished he had been able to let go. If anything, he wanted to hold on tighter, go back to those days when they were crazy about each other. And as Mitchie stood in front of him that very morning, looking like _that_, making him feel like he was hurtling towards the earth, he knew his feelings hadn't changed in the slightest.

"Mitch..." Torren finally found the courage to ask. "What... what are you doing here?"

He watched her struggle for words. Her mouth would twitch and her eyes would twist upwards. "I wanted to talk to you," she breathed. "I know... I know after everything I've done to you, I shouldn't, but I... there's so much more that needs to be said, Torren."

What else could there be? _What else could there possibly be? _It was then that Torren realized the front door was still wide open and the summer was spilling onto the marble floor and the sunlight still managed to find Mitchie's silhouette. Closing it was like placing the lock on his own cage, like preparing for his own heartache.

"You don't have to say anything else, Mitch," Torren said. He raked a hand through his floppy brown hair. "You were right about everything. I'm going to UCLA, you're going to Berkley... it never would have worked out-"

"But you're wrong!" Mitchie's sudden outburst startled Torren. He blinked once as to clear his mind and _looked _at Mitchie, really _looked _at her. Her eyes were blazing with desperation and she was wringing her delicate hands out of anxiety. "You're _wrong..._I was wrong. I'm _not _going to Berkley..." Torren could have sworn he sensed her voice crack at her last statement.

"What?" he furrowed his brow.

"I'm not good enough. Why... why would Berkley want me when they could have something ten times better?" Her eyes were brimming with tears and Torren was 10,000 feet in the air again, crashing back to reality. Where was this all coming from? Since when did Mitchie Torres feel unworthy of her dreams?

"Mitch, what are you talking about?" Torren found himself taking long strides towards the former love of his life. He found himself touching the side of her face with the lightests of touches as he spoke. "Of course, you're good enough. Music is your life..."

"Not anymore," she rasped. And with that he watched her break down entirely. The tears escaping down her cheek, her chin wobbling, her entire being shattering. "I'm not and I know it and I thought... I just thought that if I can't have the future I wanted, maybe I can go back."

Torren found himself checking out of reality at Mitchie's words. He felt his chest tighten and his blood pulse wildly in his veins. He felt vibrantly alive again, like he had never had his heart broken in the first place. "Mitch," he choked. "W-what are you say-"

But the words were barely out of Torren Yorke's mouth before they were shoved back in by the soft touch of Mitchie Torres' mouth on his. He realized her kiss wasn't taking him back, it was launching him into the air. Out of the stratosphere and beyond the mesosphere... and he wanted more...

Mitchie's hands-those delicate hands- combed themselves through his brown hair as their kiss grew firm and desperate. His mouth slanted over hers in a declaration of forgiveness.

He forgave her.

For hurting him like that with the brutal truth. He forgave her for giving up on him. He forgave her for everything if she promised to hold him like _that,_ kiss him like _that. _His left hand angled her chin upwards and his right hand smoothed over the small of her back, down to the back pocket of her jeans. His skin set on fire as her whimper touched his ears and he realized this was so _right._

"Oh, God, Torren," was all she had to say in that soft purr.

He was beyond the mesosphere, screaming out of the thermosphere, tumbling out of the exosphere, where he floated in content blackness. He was okay again.

With Mitchie Torres, he was okay again.

**Okay, so don't freak out. I know some of you guys are like, 'Where's Shane? Where's Camp Rock?'**

**Well.**

**Mitchie's got a lot of extra baggage. It'll get better, I swear. And this _will be a Smitchie._**

**So yeah. Review!**


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